


through the mist of a memory

by Meridas



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Developing Relationship, Explained Warnings in Author's Note, First Kiss, Fix-It, Gen, Mollymauk Tealeaf Gets The Cuddles He Deserves: The Chapter, Orpheus Quest, Other, Platonic Soulmates Molly & Yasha, Recovery, Rescue Missions, Resurrection, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23710198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meridas/pseuds/Meridas
Summary: "There are others yet in chains," the voice shakes in her bones. "Your strength is needed.""Show me," she prays, and the storm goes dark around her.The Stormlord sends Yasha a sign. The Mighty Nein dive in headfirst to get their lost friend back.
Relationships: Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 32
Kudos: 244





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's the year 2020, will I stop writing fics where Yasha actually gets to save her Molly? Signs point to no. Please enjoy. 
> 
> Warning notes: I wasn't sure whether to tag this as Graphic Descriptions or No Warnings, because there's one scene that contains some injury/gore that I think is canon-typical, but then again Matt tends to get pretty graphic sometimes. So this is a warning to be safe, there is some description of injury and blood, it's fairly obvious when it begins and you can skip to the next line break to resume reading. 
> 
> Thank you Eileen for the beta <3 Title comes from the poem "Deep Purple," by Helen Forrest.

It feels very strange, after everything that has happened, to go to bed once again in the room filled with flowers. She spends a long time looking at her mural before she puts her light out, and an even longer moment on her side, gazing at the familiar outline of her book. She almost wants to open it before bed, to go through the flowers and the pages she dog-eared many months ago. A part of her wants to look through all those little bookmarks, to hold on to fleeting moments in the back of an old carnival cart. She knows that if she pulls those flowers free she will picture Zuala’s smile, and if she reads those absurd lessons of etiquette again she will hear Molly’s laugh. 

She knows that there is a difference between the chains that kept her in despair and the ribbons of lost joy that she still clings to. She is free from one. The other, she will never let go of as long as she has a choice. But tonight, she doesn’t open her book to revisit them. As heavy as her heart remains, sleep calls to her too quickly. 

The Stormlord sends her another dream that night.

**_There are others yet in chains_** _, the voice shakes in her bones._ **_Your strength is needed_** _._

_Show me, she prays, and the storm goes dark around her._

_The new place is a place of emptiness. It's dark here, not the dark of a night outside but a darkness that saps strength and light and life into oblivion._

_She looks down, through the shapeless darkness. A figure kneels there, wrists shackled and bound to the floor in front of them. They're bent double under the tension of the chains, their face hidden. It's very hard to make out details in the darkness, but she can see their bare back and shoulders shaking. There is no sound in this space but for the prisoner's soft, uneven sobs._

_Yasha doesn't feel herself move, but she's closer to the prisoner. She feels the Stormlord's thunder under her skin, her heart in her throat. She knows—she can't know—it can't—_

_There's no color in this placeless dream, but there are patterns. Celestial bodies etch across the prisoner's shoulders, an all-seeing eye bisected by the sharp knobs of his spine. Feathers and flowers spill down his other arm, a snake curling down until it is cut in two by the raw wounds and dark shackles around his wrists. On the back of his hand, the only spot of color in the world, is one bright red eye._

_"Molly!" she shouts, reaches for him, but he is hundreds of miles from her fingertips and her voice. She tries to get there, fights with every ounce of her soul, but she is not there wherever he is. Her vision is fading, stretching thin, even as she claws her way closer to the sound of his pain and loneliness. If she can reach him, if she can only touch him—_

She wakes up. 

" _NO!_ "

Yasha is on her feet before she is even aware of her surroundings. The world blurs around her, far too bright to be that lonely, empty space where Molly is. She’s not _there_ anymore and that’s the only thing that matters. The room swims into focus—her room, with flowers on the walls and the promise of safety with her friends nearby and _no Molly_. Molly is nowhere near here and she can’t _get_ to him, why would the Stormlord show him to her, so far out of her reach and alone and _hurting_ —

“Yasha?”

Her wings almost spring free, her heart in her throat and futile adrenaline pumping through her heart. At the last second she reigns in her fear, her impotent anger, in time to recognize Jester’s voice. 

“I—” She comes back fully, to the real waking world. Jester and Beau are standing in her doorway, staring at her. She can see Veth and part of Caleb’s face peeking around the corner, too, and even Fjord and Caduceus looking over the heads of their shorter friends. “I’m—” something drips from her face, and she wipes at it before she thinks. Oh. She _has_ been crying. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you all.”

“Yasha, what’s wrong?” Jester says in a small voice. “Did you have a nightmare? Do you want to, um, go get some milk or something? Sometimes that’s what I do when I don’t want to go back to sleep, and—”

“ _No_.” It leaps from her mouth like lightning, hot and sharp and out of her control. An agreement was on the tip of her tongue, or at least a soft refusal, some gentle excuse. But something visceral inside her _tugs_ at even the suggestion, yanks hard like her heart is trying to escape through her ribs. She _can’t_. She can’t wait. She has to follow where the Stormlord sends her, has to be on her way immediately or else it might be too late for— 

“Oh,” she whispers, and her knees give out underneath her. Vaguely, she hears the others exclaim, feels them come into the room around her. “Oh, gods— _Molly_.”

That name brings the room instantly to silence. 

In the quiet, while her friends stare at her or exchange worried glances, Yasha gathers herself. She pushes herself back to her feet, takes a deep breath. Wipes the rest of the tears from her face. “I have to go,” she says, and her voice brooks no argument or questioning. “I—I know this is probably too much for you all to believe me. And I know that… you miss him, too. But he’s—the Stormlord, he gave me a vision, and I have to _help_ him. I _can help him_.” She looks around at them, stares back into the faces of pity and grief, and holds this fearful hope in as strong a clutch as she has ever tried. “You don’t have to believe me. You just have to promise you won’t try to stop me.” 

“We’re not going to stop you.” 

She looks down at Jester, her face upturned and mercurial as ever as her expression shifts from sorrow to ferocity. “We are _not_ going to stop you, Yasha,” she repeats. “I’m coming with you.” She plants her hands on her hips. “And I hope that the Stormlord is cool with that, because the Traveler lets me go all sorts of places and so I’m going to follow you even if you try to go without me.”

“Jester,” Beau says quietly, gently, “what if—”

“No!” Jester snaps, whirling on Beau. “No, I wasn’t there when Molly died and I should have _saved_ him but I _couldn’t!_ None of us got a chance but now if Yasha’s god is telling her there _is_ one then we have to go! Molly came for us when we needed him and now he needs _us_ and so I have to—” 

“We’re all going.” Caleb's voice is the last one she expected to hear, truthfully, but when she looks up he stands firmly in her doorway. He has that look on his face, familiar by now, the one he gets when he is concentrating on something important. He also turns to Beau. "We knew—we _hoped_ that Mollymauk could do what we could not, that he would come back in whatever way he managed before. If Yasha is receiving a sign that he _has_ , we are not going to ignore it.”

Yasha looks at her friends, feels something like hope fill her chest. “Will you help me?” she asks. “Can we—” The fear of the vision, the possibility of a rescue, the chance of seeing _Molly_ again, it’s almost too much to keep in her heart without hurting. 

A small hand takes hers. “We’re with you,” Jester whispers conspiratorially, and she squeezes Yasha’s hand. “You lead the way, Yasha, and we’ll get Molly back. Just tell us what you need.”

* * *

They get to work right away. Middle of the night be damned, Jester sits herself down and begins a Scrying spell at the dinner table. Across from her, Caduceus begins the ritual he needs for his own divination. Yasha hovers while she waits, listening in on Caleb and Beau as they pore over every scrap of information the two of them have collected, looking for anything that could help them. They’ve established that the obvious place to start is Molly’s body, his physical connection to the Material Plane. Yasha knows it won’t be that simple. But it’s a place to start. 

Her gut feeling is proven right when Jester breaks from her Scrying with a worried frown. “His coat’s not there,” she mumbles first, then shakes herself. “Nobody’s there right now, but I think someone _was_ there. It looks kind of all messed up, like somebody was there not that long ago? But I didn’t see anything weird or magic hanging around, I’m sorry Yasha.”

“It seems that we’re missing something,” Caduceus says, his voice rolling out along the dissipating wisps of incense from his spell. “Something from their past?”

“Molly’s past was— _is_ a bit complicated,” Fjord says. “Could anyone from the circus help, Yasha?”

Yasha shakes her head. “I mean, there’s Gustav? He’s the one who found Molly. But I don’t know where he is, and… he’s just a ringmaster.”

A small frown creases Caduceus’s face. “Hm, no. That one has his own debts to pay, but I don’t think it concerns your friend. Is there anyone else? Perhaps further back?”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Beau says abruptly. “That—what was her name? The tabaxi who works for the Gentleman, _she’s_ the one who recognized him from before he was Molly.”

Caleb’s mask of concentration hasn’t wavered. It’s a look that Yasha recognizes, by now—in a strange way, Caleb wields his intellect much like Yasha does her rage, sometimes. If you let some other drive take over, she knows, it’s so much easier to push away the thought of pain, of failure. 

“Cree,” he sighs. “I suppose at some point she would take it upon herself to check on him. It was only a matter of time before she discovered our lie.”

Fjord coughs. “I, um. Now that you mention it, she and I did have a conversation at one point.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I had forgotten all about that, I apologize.”

Yasha takes a deep breath. “If she’s the one who disturbed the… the grave, then we need to see her first. Whatever she did, it didn’t work—if she did anything, I guess.” 

She looks around at her friends, their determined faces. “To Zadash?” 

Caleb’s hand disappears into a pocket, and brings out his chalk. “To Zadash.”

* * *

Descending into the true Evening Nip has become almost routine, but this time feels different. Charged, almost as much as the first time they found themselves here. For just a moment, Yasha lets herself think back on that moment. She'd found them at the perfect time, back then: right when Molly needed her, tripping headlong into his forgotten past. Back then she always tried to subtly keep an eye out for the tabaxi, to put herself between Molly and the one who called him _Lucien_ and put that unhappy tension in his shoulders. 

This time, she looks for Cree for a different reason entirely. It’s difficult to find her in the dark bar, but then Jester grabs her hand and tugs her determinedly forward with the others in tow.

Caleb and Fjord approach her first, just as they discussed. Yasha tries not to look like she’s hovering, especially like she might be hovering with violent intent. It’s just, it’s _so hard_ to wait. But for the moment, all she can do is listen in, staring down at the ale placed in front of her as if all her attention is focused on the foam slowly dissolving along the top. 

“We, ah, have a few questions for you about our mutual friend,” Fjord’s voice carries to her ears. “I know when last we spoke, we—”

“When last we spoke,” Cree interrupts, her voice icy and impatient, “one of you lied to me, and the other admitted to your carelessness. And I see the Nonagon has not returned with you again, so surely we have no further business to discuss.”

“But you went to him, didn’t you?” Caleb steps, his voice unusually smooth— _snake oil and magic_ , but Yasha’s not going to be the one to stop him. “You went back to where M—where Lucien was buried, and you brought him back. Where—”

Cree whirls on them, fangs bared, Caleb’s magic slipping past her like a breeze. “ _No_ ,” she hisses. “I have no answers for you, because it didn’t work. I _tried_ , I tried harder than ever, harnessed more power than I ever have before to try to reach him and assist his return. But I was _stopped_.” She shakes her head, fur bristling, and Yasha knows she cannot stay to the side. “You fools were _entrusted_ with his returned life, and you let him die! And now he is trapped somewhere beyond, somewhere I cannot reach and he cannot break free from! You have ruined _everything_ that we strived for!” 

“Where is he?” Yasha demands, pushing past Caleb’s shoulder. She can feel every eye in the establishment on her back, waiting to see how hostile to become. But there is lighting in her blood and thunder at her back, and she is not afraid of anyone. There is only one fear in her heart, and that is letting her Molly slip through her fingers again. “Tell me, and we go. But don’t make me ask again.”

Cree’s ears flatten against her head. Yasha knows the look in her eyes, like someone wondering whether to strike first. Then she sees the moment Cree reads her back, and sees that this is not a fight Yasha is willing to lose. 

“Back in the grave you left him in,” she says bitterly. “There was no point. You’ve ruined any chance of the Nonagon’s return now. His body is desecrated. I hope you’re all very happy with yourselves.” 

Yasha nods once. Then she turns and leaves the Evening Nip without another word.

The footsteps of her friends clatter behind her, back up the stairs, back into the cool evening air where Yasha can take a deep breath, try to quell the shaking of her hands. “This is probably good,” Jester whispers to Yasha as they reach the streets again. “Yasha, if your god is telling you that you have a chance, and _Cree_ couldn’t make it work, that means that it’s still definitely _Molly_ that we’re going to get back. Nobody else is going to come back and body-steal him when we try to get him back, it’ll be okay.”

“But whatever Cree did, it didn’t work,” Fjord sighs. “It sounds as though simple diamonds won’t quite be enough for this.”

“There are other ways,” Caduceus says thoughtfully. “If a soul is trapped somewhere out of reach, neither passed on nor truly here, then there must be a way to free it. No one should be stuck like that forever.”

“We have to go back to get him, first,” Jester says. “A new body sounds like it would be really hard to get anyway, and also Molly might be kinda pissed to not have all his pretty tattoos anymore when he comes back.”

Caleb catches up to them then, lagging a few moments behind the rest of the group. “We go north, then,” Yasha says as he joins them, since the group is looking to her to forge their path.

“North,” Caleb agrees; and to Yasha’s surprise Beau raises her voice as well. 

“North… for Molly.”

* * *

Their journey is quiet, and longer than any of them like. They push themselves quickly, perhaps harder than they should—but with a goal and a bearing, it’s hard to tell each other that they need to slow down and take breaks. They look after each other, but Molly is one of them, too, and the desire to get him back, to make sure he is safe, continues to push them stronger than their self-preservation can compete with.

The matter of reclaiming Molly, though, still weighs on all their minds. No matter how much knowledge Caleb and Beau have amassed, how many hours Jester and Caduceus have spent talking to gods, none of them know how to find a soul that is missing and trapped as far away as Molly’s is. 

So they go one step at a time.

Unearthing Molly’s grave might be the hardest thing she has ever done. But they can’t linger by the side of the road; they need a safe place to rest, a place of healing and holiness. This far north, there is only one such place they can go.

“Come on,” Caduceus says, his soft voice even more gentle than usual in the face of the burden they carry. “The Blooming Grove will help us.”

* * *

Caduceus’s home is very peaceful. It’s not a place that holds any particular connection to the Stormlord, and truth be told she wavers a little at the idea that a graveyard is the best place to return a soul to life. But it is _safe_ , and it is the place at hand where they can rest long enough for Yasha to listen for her next step.

Yasha has learned many things since she left her first tribe, not the least of which has been faith. Faith, as she knows it now, is one of many kinds of strength. It can carry people through so many things in so many different ways—she has learned it from her friends, from her journey, and ultimately from the Stormlord. If Jester and Caduceus have received no signs, Yasha has to believe that faith will carry the answer to her, and her alone. Kord is the one who set her on this path, and she must have faith that He will also show her what she needs to do, when she needs it.

It’s not easy to fall asleep, even camped out in the temperate night air of the Blooming Grove. Anxiety keeps bubbling up in her, a constant worry that she simply won’t be enough to find Molly, to bring him back and make everything alright again. She failed him once before—too weak to break her own chains, too slow to get back on her feet and find a way to save him back then. 

She breathes in deeply, rolling over on her back to look up at the dark sky. Trouble sleeping isn’t new to her. With everything she’s been through, there is so much in her mind that lies in wait, that she wants to avoid, and far fewer things that she can think of for solace. But she tries. As much as the fear of failure hurts her heart, she tries to think about Molly. She remembers nights like this one back at the carnival, when Molly would stay awake to tell her stories: fanciful little tales that he’d collected from whatever town they passed through. Later, when Yasha had settled more and found comfort in the casual contact Molly gave as easy as breathing, he would run his fingers through her hair when she couldn’t sleep. She always had so many little braids and twists when she woke up in the morning, usually with Molly snoring lightly on top of her where he’d not bothered to go back to his own bed. She thinks of all the times she would be called away from the carnival by the Stormlord’s tasks, and each time she returned Molly would greet her with a brief hug, a kiss on her cheek or shoulder or hair, a gentle bump from his jewel-bedecked horns. Never any questions, never any doubts. 

Everything she has seen now of the world tells her that some people belong together. She belonged with Zuala, and perhaps she hasn’t lost that entirely. She belongs, by some miracle, with the Mighty Nein, who have saved her and forgiven her for the things she has done. And she knows in her heart that she still belongs with Molly, and he with her. That terrible dark nowhere of her dream is no place for someone who is soft and sharp and vibrant like Molly. He belongs by her side. She has faith that she will be shown the way to bring him back home. 

She closes her eyes, and lets the dream take her. 

_She stands at the center of a web in the darkness. Chains of every size and weight drape through the space around her, crossing each other but never touching, reaching far beyond what her dream-sight can know. She weaves between them, not touching the strands that hum and chime with distant voices._

_Her hand rises up, guided by a force she cannot see but feels deep in her bones. One silver chain slips across her open palm, soft as a breath. The force curls her fingers around it, and she begins to walk, following the small chain into the darkness._

_She doesn’t know how long she walks through draping chains and whispering dark. This small thread in her hand is the only one that matters. The Stormlord guided her hand to it. He will guide her to Molly in turn._

_When at last she comes to a stop, she doesn’t see him the way she did last time. The silver chain in her hand divides, splits into a web that tangles and curls in front of her. Her footsteps become slow and difficult. Despite herself, she hesitates. She is afraid the wrong step will hurt him._

_Lightning splits the darkness, glittering along each link in the thicket before her. She hears no thunder in this place beyond the planes, but its echo is never far from her bones. She holds very still, and listens._

**_There is a magic_** _, the Stormlord tells her,_ **_older than the Age of Arcanum. It is the breath of divinity, a magic wrought not from materials or force, but from a mortal soul. The rite you will invoke relies entirely on you. You may take your friends, for they will give you strength as well as him; but you must find him with your heart, and you must set him free._ **

**_A warning: this is a quest that can be undertaken only once, without faltering. You will be tested. A single step backwards will mean failure, and the soul will be forever beyond your reach._ **

Yasha wakes with a promise on her lips, the voice of Kord ringing in the back of her mind. She sits up, and goes through the Blooming Grove to rouse every other member of the Mighty Nein. 

“It’s time.”

* * *

The ritual that they prepare is much different than the intricate arcane things she has seen Caleb produce from his studies. Yasha has not been given any magical glyphs, no sigils or words in half-lost languages. They will have the anchor of divine power in Caduceus, the head of a questing spear in Yasha, and the strength to press into the unknown in all their hearts. It is less of a spell, and more an acceptance of the hand that extended to pull Yasha to her quest.

“You will only have a limited time,” Caduceus warns them as they all settle into position. “The Wildmother tells me that I can hold the spell in place for only so long before you will be forced to return, with or without the soul intact. If he is with you, he can be returned to life. If not—”

“I know,” Yasha says, her throat tight. If anything, she feels too aware of the possibility. The idea that she could fail Molly _again_ , could have his soul slip from her fingers and be lost to those chains and that darkness forever… it doesn’t bear thinking about. 

She’s also keenly aware of his body resting at the center of the circle between them, laid out upon the gaudy tapestry he’d been so pleased to buy. Caduceus had taken on the responsibility of preparing him when none of them were eager to see the ravage of nature on their friend; but by whatever strange magic has caused his unique circumstance, Molly looks barely touched. If Yasha didn’t know better, she could almost think that he’s merely asleep. She does, of course—she knows all too well that her best friend is too pale, too still, would be far too cold if she were to touch the preserved marble-like perfection of his skin.

She pushes the thought away and takes her place in the circle. “Is everyone ready?” Caduceus’s voice comes. Yasha takes a deep breath, and hears the roll of thunder on the horizon. The hair at the back of her neck stands on end with the power in the air. 

“Ready,” she says, and the world crashes away.

* * *

She is standing in the place of emptiness. It is dark all around her, nothingness stretching in all directions. Her heart begins to race, panic crawling up her throat as she looks out at the endless expanse with no path in sight, no Molly, no guidance— 

“Whoa,” she hears to her left. “This is… not what I expected.”

The sound of Beau’s voice doesn’t echo as Yasha might have thought, but even falling flat into dead space it still sounds wonderful. She takes a steadying breath and looks around at her friends—her family, and Molly’s, who will help her bring him home. 

“Remember, this place is not what it seems to be,” Caleb cautions them all. Even with his nerves, Yasha can see the mingling of wonder and logic in his eyes as he takes in the strange plane around them. “You mentioned that we would encounter things, Yasha, but we have no idea what they may truly be.”

“I—yes, I don’t really know,” she says. “I’ll have to… I have to find Molly, somehow. I don’t know if something will try to stop us, or just confuse us, or… I don’t even know—”

She feels a small hand squeeze her elbow. “You’ve got this, Yasha,” Jester says confidently.

“We’re with you,” Beau adds, stepping closer as well. Yasha takes a deep breath, and stares far into the distant dark. 

_You must find him with your heart_ , her memory whispers. Yasha closes her eyes to the darkness, and opens her heart. Every memory of Molly floods her at once, every sweet moment that has been shadowed by crushing sadness but brightened now with breathless hope. She sees their first meeting: two people who could not seem more different, yet they had fit together in a heartbeat. She sees clever hands and quick smiles, the showman’s flourish and the softer grace he kept just for their family. She feels the warmth of him, the first time she’d accepted his open arms and pulled him into a quick hug that became a habit and a comfort, and she feels a tug in her chest as if a living thread is pulling her along. 

She opens her eyes. Her feet take a step forward, unfaltering in the face of the darkness. “Come on,” she says, and that warm glow in her heart pulses with every step in the right direction. “I know the way.”

* * *

When they meet the first fragment, it seems like Yasha may have called him. Every guided step she takes relies on her memory, her devotion. With her mind wrapped up in thoughts of those earliest days with him, it seems like a dream when the darkness near her side ripples, and becomes a figure so long-ago familiar it takes her breath away. 

“What do you think?” Mollymauk twirls around, his coat flaring behind him as he spins. His hair is much shorter than the last time she had seen it—in her haze, she remembers being there when he had told Desmond he wanted to stop cutting it, to let it grow out so that he could braid flowers into it like he had just started doing with Yasha’s. His coat, too, is lacking in places she remembers. An ongoing project, like so many things Molly possessed. He was never done with anything, not really, not while he had time on the road and a pen or a needle or a sword at hand. 

“Molly,” she says, and for the life of her she cannot think of what she said at the time. She wants to reach out and touch him, but he is just beyond her reach and she is frozen in awe. 

“Come on, give me your honest opinion. The Knowing Mistress bit is new, do you think I got it right? There’s still room on there for some more fiddly bits, I’ve been thinking of a few things to add…”

“Can he hear us?” Jester whispers at Yasha’s side, and the figure spins around again. He wavers, a little bit, like an image in a mirror that isn’t quite steady. 

“Of course I can, dear, and I’m waiting for some critique! Tell me if this isn’t the most ridiculous coat you’ve ever seen, I have a certain level of panache to strive to, you know.”

“You look wonderful, Molly,” Jester says, and for the first time her voice wobbles and chokes just a little bit. “Can you come this way, please? It’s just we only have so much time here and we have to bring you home.”

The image wavers again. Molly’s head tilts to the side, confused, and he wanders a few paces further from Yasha’s reach as he casts his gaze over the group. “Are you sure it’s me you’re looking for? Paths are very strange here, you know. Fickle things, can take you all sorts of places you didn’t know you shouldn’t go.”

“Please, Molly,” Jester says, and she turns as if to step out to meet him— 

In a flash, Yasha grips her arm and pulls her back to her side. Jester stumbles, and Yasha might feel bad about it later, but in that second her heart is pounding so loudly in her ears that her body has no room for other thoughts. “Don’t step back,” she warns. “You can’t—none of us can step back, not one single step.” 

The mirage of Mollymauk taps his nose in her direction, then vanishes like smoke.

Yasha swallows hard, and eases up her grip apologetically. “I think we’ve encountered one of those obstacles,” she says, her voice shaky. “I—I think we’ll be tested. These might be Molly, sort of… but they’re not _all_ him. Not his soul, just his… moments. Memories. We have to find where he’s really kept, and free him there. If we try to go back with one of these… these fragments, then we’ll lose the real Molly for good.”

Jester turns, and throws her arms around Yasha’s middle. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Thank you for stopping me.”

“It’s okay,” Yasha whispers, and gently pats her shoulders. “Now we know. I… I did not expect it to be like that. I thought… well, I thought it would be something easier.”

She feels Beau’s hand at the small of her back, then Veth’s at her hip, then Caleb’s and Fjord’s at her shoulders. “Come on,” Fjord says, quiet and firm. “Let’s keep going, then, until we find the real Molly.”

Yasha closes her eyes again, and reaches for the tug at her heart.

* * *

They meet other mirages like the first, but now that they have met one they learn to spot that pale-mirror look. The images drift in and out, sometimes close enough to hear, other times barely on the edges of their vision. They are all some kind of memory, some slip of Mollymauk that is caught in the thoughts of one of his friends like a flower petal in ice. The Mighty Nein all huddle close to Yasha, and keep following her lead. 

When the ground becomes misty under her feet, she fights not to rush ahead. If she goes too quickly, she’s afraid she’ll get lost, will miss a turn from the tug in her chest and lose more time trying to find it again. But they only have so much time, and at the pace she keeps, it isn’t long before a surprisingly small shadow breaks the low-swirling mist before them.

It’s Molly, but… it’s still _not_. He’s solid, not flickering or wispy like the mirages, and she knows even by looking at him that she could reach out and touch his shoulder. But even in the bleakness of this otherplace he seems almost hollow, at least compared to the vibrant soul she’s looking for. His hair is cropped very short, and no tattoos adorn his pale, dirty skin apart from the glaring red eyes.

“Molly?” she asks cautiously. She kneels down in front of him, gently placing her hand on his bare shoulder. “Molly, it’s me. Can you hear me?” 

He doesn’t act as if he can see her at all. Not even his tail twitches, wrapped around his shins for comfort. But his lips move, even though his eyes don’t focus on her in the slightest. 

The only thing he says is, “Empty.”

Yasha’s heart falls. This is another memory, another shattered piece of Molly that this place has put in her path. It must be his earliest days—perhaps even the first night he rose from the ground. She’d never seen him like this, only joined the carnival after he clawed his way to being someone bright-eyed and willful, but there’s no doubt that this is the person Gustav and the circus took in several years ago. 

“We have to keep going,” Beau says, quietly but firmly. “This isn’t the Molly we’re looking for, remember. We’ve gotta find the end of the line here if we’re going to save the real Molly.”

Yasha nods. It breaks her heart to leave him here like this, but Beau is right. Her Molly still needs her, and there is nothing more she can do right now. "I'm coming for you, Molly. I love you," she promises, and stands up. She lingers with her hand on his shoulder for as long as she can, but he doesn’t look up when she has to break contact.

She steps away, swallowing down something hot and tight and painful in her throat. They only have so much time here. She has to turn on her heel and go.

Above the shuffle of footsteps behind her, there’s a soft, barely audible whine. 

Yasha’s feet stumble, her vision blurring as she fails to hold back tears. She can’t bear to leave him like this, but she _has_ to. There’s not enough time to soothe every memory of Molly’s fractured life before the spell runs out. As much as she wants to go back, to pick up the memory of the scared, empty person Molly used to be, she can’t. If she turns back, she loses everything. She can’t take even a single step back for him. She _can’t_.

“Yasha,” Beau warns her, but she isn’t the one who acts. Instead it’s Caleb, at the back of their group, who stops just before he steps past the memory and goes to one knee. 

He takes off his coat, movements quick and deliberate before anyone can say a word to him. He murmurs something, too quiet for Yasha to hear, but whatever it is makes Mollymauk close his eyes. Caleb drapes his coat over Molly’s bare shoulders, gently tucks it around him as much as he can. All Mollymauk says is another quiet, raspy, “ _empty_ ,” but it sounds softer now.

“Yasha is right,” Caleb tells him, to her surprise. “We are coming for you, Mollymauk. You will not be empty for long, that is a promise.” He hesitates, then leans forward and kisses Molly’s forehead. Then he, too, has to rise to his feet and stumble away.

Caleb looks down at the ground as he catches up to them, rubbing at the exposed sleeve of his shirt. "What?" he mutters when they all look at him. "Let's go, you said we don't have time." 

Veth opens her mouth to speak, but Yasha beats her to it. "Thank you, Caleb," she says simply. His glance flickers toward her. 

Each step gets easier, as she follows the tug in her heart that will take her to Molly.

* * *

She can feel the magnetic pull growing stronger the further they walk. It’s easier to pass through the mirrors and ghosts that waver along their path—they’re just dreams, really, less solid and more like the haze of a hot day’s horizon.

She’s so intent on following what she can feel that she doesn’t even notice her eyes closing, her feet leading her onward despite that. It’s not as if there are landmarks in this darkness, anyway. Wherever Molly is held, whatever this place is in its oppressive quiet and absence of good and light and joy, it doesn’t need her to see. So it takes her a moment to process when instead she begins to register a new sense, something so familiar that she almost walks right on through it. Perhaps if she had been on her own she would never even had registered the change. It’s only Beau’s sharp intake of breath that makes her stop, makes her open here eyes again and realize that the cloying, iron-wet tang on the air coalescing around them is the smell of blood on a battlefield. 

“Oh, gods,” Beau chokes, and a few steps back Yasha hears Veth whimper quietly, hears Caleb choke on a sob or a retch or both. She stands there frozen, unable to step back but incapable of making herself take one more step toward the scene of Molly’s death. 

This figure is as real as the empty Molly was, solid and all too present in their path. If only it would appear as a mirage, Yasha thinks wildly, if only it would give them the mercy of that. But instead there is the smell of blood in the air, and a wide open wound in her best friend’s chest, and the sound of shallow, rasping breaths carried through the dark between them. Each one is a death rattle, a dying gasp that fills her ears, and yet still he stays upright, on his knees like a petitioner, frozen in the moment before the life left him and he was taken… here. Wherever they are now, this fragment of Molly’s soul does not know what lies in wait, what has trapped him and kept him from the people who love him all this time. 

It’s Beau who breaks their tableau this time. She steps forward, faltering and slow, until she stands close enough to touch. “Molly,” her voice cracks out, and she goes to her knees like a puppet dropped from the hand. “Oh, gods. Molly, I’m… gods, I’m so sorry.”

She reaches out as if to touch, and the fragment recoils as if she threatened to hit him. He bursts into a laugh, wet and agonizing and manic. “Well, _fuck you too_ ,” he gasps, and Beau flinches like she’s been struck.

Yasha wants to go to her, but Beau shakes herself, shoulders squaring although her breath catches. “Hey,” she tries again, more carefully although her voice is wet and thick and rough. “Hey, Molly. Where are you, huh? Can you look at me, at least? Come on, don’t be an asshole, look at me.”

She swallows audibly, a shiver running through her. Yasha wishes she could put a hand on Beau’s shoulder, wrap this piece of Molly in her arms, but she cannot make herself move. 

“Please,” Beau whispers. “Don’t make me say it again, you fucker, just… _come on_.”

“Beau,” the vision mumbles, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t—did Beau—”

“I made it,” Beau tells him, reaching out more slowly. “I—yeah, I made it out alive. So did Caleb and… and Nott. We’re all okay.”

"Oh," he sighs out. "That's alright, then."

"Molly, _no._ " There are tears streaming freely down Beau's face now, but her voice is fierce and determined. She grabs him by the back of the neck and holds him up, keeping his swaying form from toppling into the endless void beneath them. “No, that’s not alright, you jackass, we’re _here_ because that’s _so far from alright_. It’s not fucking okay that you _died_ , in any circumstance, alright? You’re fucking coming back with us, because that’s just—you can’t—”

Beau picks up one of his hands and presses his bloodied palm to the back of her neck, firmly over her jade tattoo. "I owe a lot to you," she says, her voice low and raspy with emotion. "And I also owe you a fucking beat-down for trying to get the last word in by fucking _dying_ , that's such a bullshit move, man.”

Molly laughs, a choked little sound that turns into a cough, that breaks a new crack open in Yasha’s heart and makes Beau yank him forward. Yasha swipes the tears from her face, just to see Beau hug this part of Molly who died for her, for all of them, who can’t let go or move on or come back until they free him. Beau seizes him and holds him tightly, uncaring of the blood that seeps into her clothes and pools across her skin like a stain.

“I will drag your ass out of here if you make me,” Beau gasps, broken with a sob but rough and determined all the same. “So _please_ , just… just come with Yasha. I know you like her best anyway, so if you won’t listen to me, just listen out for her, okay? That’s—that’s all. We need you to do that. Please.”

Yasha feels someone step up just behind her. She turns her head to see Caleb staring at Molly and Beau, his face drawn and pale, eyes far away. Impulsively, the thought crosses her mind to take his hand. Neither of them are the most comfortable with touch, but it's… well, it's what Molly would do for them, has done for each of them when they needed it so much. So she grabs Caleb's hand, and holds on loosely when he startles. But he doesn't pull away—in fact, after a moment, he reaches back and clasps Veth's hand. Yasha follows their hands as Veth reaches for Jester, and she for Fjord, until the five of them stand connected in the face of the moment that shattered them.

She looks back up, just in time to see the fragment dissolve from Beau's embrace like moonlight. Beau's shoulders slump, her spine bowing as she buries her face in her hands. Yasha steps forward, feeling the tug that pulls Caleb and Veth and Jester and Fjord with her. She puts her free hand on Beau's shoulder and pulls her gently to her feet. 

Beau keeps her tear-stained face downcast, not looking back to see the group they form. "Beau," Yasha says, "you did your best. You—I know you did. So does Molly."

She holds out her free hand, upturned where Beau can see it. "He still needs us. Can you keep going?" 

She sees Beau's throat bob as she swallows hard, fresh tears escaping down her cheeks. But she pulls up her hand and places it in Yasha's, small and calloused and warm when she squeezes back. "Yeah," she says gruffly. "Yeah, let's go. Let's go get him."

Yasha steps forward again, and the Mighty Nein push onward without letting each other go.

* * *

She knows she is close to the end when she sees him. It feels so much like her first vision of Molly: a figure clasped in chains, kneeling before them. But unlike the other visions, this one rolls his head back to look directly at them as they approach. Unlike the Molly of her first vision, the real Molly, this figure rises to his feet. He sees all of them; his awareness looms towards them like a dream-living thing. He sways a bit, but not like he’s hurt—like a charmed snake, like something hypnotic, driven by a rhythm none of them can hear. He stands there, swaying gently back and forth, and waits. 

Yasha squeezes the two hands held in her own, then releases them and steps forward by herself. The footsteps of the Mighty Nein come to a stop behind her, but she knows that they remain with her. This meeting is simply for the two of them to have, alone. 

“Hello, Lucien,” she says quietly.

Up close, it’s very strange how little the two of them look alike. Yasha wonders if it’s a product of this in-between reality, or of her own perceptions. It’s in the way he schools his face, in the tilt of his head and the set of his spine. Every time she thinks she sees Mollymauk in his familiar features, she blinks and she is looking at a stranger.

“He knew you’d be here,” he says. His voice is fainter than Molly’s always was, even when Yasha first knew him—almost like an echo. There is none of that soft wildling lilt to it; where Molly picked up his voice from a carnival, Lucien speaks with gravitas and confidence of schooling, of knowledge, perhaps of someone far older than his face. “I know you now. You’re his stormcloud.” He smiles a little, unfamiliar, uncanny. “He stopped asking for you a while ago.”

Yasha’s breath _hurts_. Lucien flickers like a candle flame, almost gone, then steady again. “Where is he?” Yasha asks. Her voice feels like a whisper, but it sounds far too loud. She’s nothing like Lucien in here. She’s far too different. “Is he—is he still here?” 

She almost stops herself there, but Lucien’s piercing eyes can see the question in her heart anyway, wrenching it free of her throat so that it burns her tongue. “Am I too late?” 

Lucien tilts his head, as if he’s listening for something far behind him. There’s nothing that Yasha can hear. “That depends,” he says, no longer looking at her. His gaze seems very far distant, more like the other fragments that they’ve encountered than he seemed at first. “I don’t think you’re unequivocally too late, stormcloud. You’ve done well, navigating this place, walking past the ghosts, passing the tests you had to. If there’s enough of him left for you to love, there will be enough to bring back.”

“Anything,” Yasha snaps. Her rage, grief-stricken and protective and never far away, almost flares past her control—how _dare_ he call her by Molly’s endearment in one breath, and in the next insinuate that she would not love him in his smallest pieces as much as she does in his vibrant wholeness. She _loves_ him, and he needs her. That is all she needs to know.

She takes a deep breath, simmering her rage back down. Lucien’s eyes are trained back on her now, watching with a kind of piercing knowledge that sears right through her in this place. She meets his gaze and lets him see what he wants, whatever he needs to let her pass this final test before Molly, _her_ Molly. They are so close now, and she can taste lightning at the back of her throat as her rage cools back to embers. 

Suddenly his hands seize around her shoulders, biting in like claws. Beau barks out a warning, but Yasha waves her back. Lucien's eyes are not feral, not angry. They are full of hurt and a strange, unfathomable kind of caring. For the first time, he has Mollymauk’s face.

"He doesn't know," he rasps. "I—I had no idea. I should have… doesn't matter. But _he_ doesn't even know why he's here."

"Are you… the same as him?" Yasha asks, carefully. She's not sure why she asks. She's not completely sure she wants to know. 

But Lucien gives a hoarse little laugh. "No," he breathes. "Not anymore. I don't think there's enough _left_ of me to be the same. Certainly not enough to hold, like it's holding him. I'm just… memories. And not very many of them, even." He smiles, sharp and almost familiar. "But I _saw_. I saw everything I was looking for." He hangs his head. "I saw enough. I know things that are better left forgotten." His hands have loosened, just lying limply on her shoulders now. "I don't think I'll still be around, after this. It’s for the best. But there's still enough of him to take back, if you find him. If you hurry." 

He looks up. "Please hurry, Yasha. I left behind so much that he can do, but this… I thought I could handle this, when it came for me. But he can't. And he doesn't deserve it. Please find him."

"I will," she vows, and she hears thunder roll across this dreamscape in her answer. Impulsively, instinctively, she places one hand over Lucien's heart. "I will. You can go now."

Lucien smiles at her. The strange light between worlds shines through him like sunlight through mist, and then Yasha stands alone.

_But I’m not alone_ , she tells herself, pushing fiercely back against the dark. _I am not alone, and neither are you, Molly. I’m here, we’re here, we’re so close if we can just—_

She breaks into a run, finally unable to restrain herself as she knows, her heart _knows_ how close he is. The sound of thunder chases her forward, the drum of her friends behind her pushing onward, onward, closer and _closer—_

Lightning splits the dark apart, and the same figure from her first dream is lit up at her feet. Bound in chains, head bowed and shoulders shaking, Molly's soul looks fragile and small and so unacceptably alone. But it's him. It's him, and that means everything. 

Yasha drops to her knees, reaching out for him immediately. "Molly," she gasps, "it's me, it's me. I'm here." She covers his hands with hers as gently as she can. "Molly, I came for you. We all came for you." 

Molly’s shoulders shake as he takes a sharp breath. The chains around his bloodied wrists rattle at the slightest movement. “Yasha?” he rasps, and no matter how torn and dry his voice is it still strikes a chord in Yasha that almost makes her weep. It’s still him, Molly’s voice that resonates inside her ribcage like no other sound in this place has. 

She reaches out, gently pushing his hair back behind his horn. “It’s me,” she whispers, “it’s your charm. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry it took me so long, but I’m here now. We’re here to take you home, Molly.”

Molly’s trembling has overtaken his whole body, his breaths coming in short and wet like he’s crying. “ _Yasha_ ,” he sobs, and he plants his hands against the void and starts to push himself up— 

The chains wrench at his wrists, yanking him into a deeper bow than before. As a gasp of pain escapes Molly, Yasha’s hands dart out and clench around the chains. 

“ _Let. Him. Go._ ”

Her fingers bite into the cold metal and _pull_. The chains start to tighten, trying to clamp down harder against Molly’s wrist as Yasha resists them with all her might. A cry builds in her chest, tearing at her throat as her fingernails crack and the metal screams.

One manacle cracks open, and falls to the void. 

Yasha seizes the other cuff. The others press in behind her, their presence close and undeniable against the endless lonely vastness of this place. Her friends are with her, they are her strength and her heart and her shield against the dark. She digs her fingers in harder, but she can feel them going numb as the bindings fight back against her— 

A thin lavender hand grips hers. Yasha looks up, gasping for breath as she strains to keep her hold, and meets Molly’s bright red eyes. No words have to pass between them for her to see that he _trusts_ her, that he _knew_ she would come for him. Molly’s fingers thread through hers and grasp the cuff around his wrist, and she feels him pulling too, trying to help her, trying to break free with any scrap of failing strength he has left. Yasha looks at her best friend in the world, feels the love and determination from her family, and she grips the chain with all her might and her heart and _pulls_.

The manacle shatters.

“You’re free,” Yasha breathes, and tears spill down her face as she takes Molly’s unbound hands in hers. “Molly, I’m here, you’re free. You can come home.”

The darkness around them shivers, and the distant cracks of thunder are much closer than before.

“I _knew_ —” Molly’s shaking, his teeth chattering together and his hands unable to settle. “Yasha, I don’t understand—” 

“We have to go,” Caleb says urgently. “ _Now_ , Yasha, this spell has almost run its course. Mollymauk—” his voice wavers, breaks. But he finds it again. “There is one more step in your journey home, my friend. But I give you my word, Mollymauk Tealeaf, we will be waiting to bring you back on the other side.”

“Caleb,” Molly breathes, “Yasha, please, don’t go—I’m—”

“I will not leave you,” she whispers. She holds his face in her hands, puts her forehead against his. “I am not leaving you, Molly, I will never leave you. You are _coming with me_ , do you understand? Will you come back to me when I call you, Molly? _Please_.” 

“Yasha—”

“ _Promise me._ ” 

“Okay,” Molly whispers.

“Hold onto me,” she orders, and his fingers lace through hers and hold painfully tight as the thunder cracks overhead and lightning splits the darkness open. 

Yasha bolts upright, her spirit slammed back into her body and left reeling with the change. Air rushes down her dry throat and she coughs in surprise. Every part of her aches as if she’s been running for hours. She feels stretched thin, parched, but she pushes herself to her knees. 

“Caduceus,” she gasps, “ _now!_ ” 

The light that sparks between each member of the circle crashes together into a single blinding spot at the center. Yasha squeezes her eyes shut, tears leaking down her face. “Molly,” she calls, scratchy and weak. She grits her teeth and pushes forward, forces her eyes to open and _see_ and _reach_. She _promised_. She— 

“ _Molly!_ ” 

Not just her voice, but more, rising and desperate and hopeful as they all stretch out a lifeline, a beacon for a lost soul to follow home, and Yasha throws her strength with theirs and flares the wings from her shoulders and screams for all she is worth. 

The light goes out, and Yasha falls back to the ground like a force had dropped on her back. She lies there for a moment, breathless, blinking the radiant black spots from her eyes. As soon as she can drag a full breath into her lungs, she pushes herself shakily upright and crawls to the center of the circle. 

Her hand touches Molly’s, and he’s warm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought. The second chapter should be up next week, with more of my favored terrain: soft post-rez feels.
> 
> You can also find the playlist for this chapter [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3e1stOHNCbp9nZy1HCuC8D?si=oKHak_k5RdyjAZy-wA6_Rw)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late, but welcome to the chapter of feelings and cuddles and more feelings! There's also a new playlist for this chapter [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5PArPb0Tpi3j8oGeDmJhKw?si=Xh5J4sTqQeWcia2jfcJcBg) if you want to give it a listen.
> 
> Thank you to Eileen and Silk for beta-ing 💜

When he first comes back to life, there’s not a whole lot that Molly is really aware of. He knows the most important thing: his name is Mollymauk Tealeaf, Molly to his friends. He hasn’t lost himself—or maybe he did, for a while, but he knows another important thing: he knows that Yasha saved him. Yasha brought him back from that place he doesn’t want to remember, she brought the Mighty Nein to him and then she brought him home. 

"Your wings," he mumbles, less than half coherent when he comes back to his body to see Yasha looming over him, teary but magnificent. "Yasha, your wings." 

He reaches up to touch them, and passes out in her arms.

* * *

Everything is fuzzy for a while, all bright and soft and too much for his mind to process after so long in the darkness. He doesn't know where he is or how long he spends there, fading in and out of consciousness. All he knows is that Yasha is there too—he clings to that, knowing that every time he wakes up he can feel her arms around him, and if he listens he can hear her heartbeat lull him back to sleep. 

When he finally opens his eyes properly, the unfamiliar room is full of sunlight. Molly squints a little in the light, but it doesn’t immediately give him a stabbing headache this time. He still feels… gods, he feels worse than that hungover morning in Hupperdook, worse than the first time he ever got the flu and Gustav was sympathetic while the twins laughed at his whiny misery. He aches all over, a weird kind of ache that feels like it reaches inside him deeper than just his muscles. But he takes a deep breath and he can smell cut flowers and fresh salty air, and he pushes himself slowly into a sitting position.

“Yasha,” he mumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He flexes his stiff tail, curling it around to tap at her face until her nose scrunches up in the grumpy-morning look that Molly's so fond of. "Hey, wake up. Where… are we?"

Yasha scrubs one hand across her face, grumbling nonsensically into her pillow. He can't help but grin at her, warmth blooming in his chest at this wonderfully familiar moment. For a second, they could be back in a small circus tent somewhere on the road. This could almost be any one of dozens of mornings the two of them woke up in a similar state—but now there's a new relief to waking up like this, a trembling kind of joy that comes from realizing that he doesn't need to be afraid anymore. He’s not lost in the dark anymore. This isn’t a pretty hallucination or some kind of dream as he’s dying. Been there, done that, thank you—he _died_ , and it was just as bad as he’d never let himself think about, thanks to _fucking_ Lucien.

But this isn’t a dream anymore. He’s here in a large, soft bed, with an open window and his favorite person, and no creepy demon that Lucien sold his soul to is going to take that away again. 

“We moved to the Lavish Chateau after two days,” Yasha finally says, emerging from her pillow with a yawn. She blinks rapidly at the sunlight coming through the window. “Wow. I didn’t think I would sleep so long.”

“Well, being a galant rescuer will take it out of you.” And so will being the one in need of galant rescuing, apparently—he’s a little annoyed that just sitting upright is making his head spin. Molly flops back down into the pillows with a deep sigh, and blinks the dark spots out of his eyes before Yasha notices he’s still worse for wear. “That doesn’t ring any bells, though. Have I been here before?” 

“No. The Blooming Grove, that’s Caduceus’s home where we… where you woke up, it’s safe, but it was too small for all of us, now that the Clays are back home. This is Nicodranas; it’s Jester’s mother’s home.” Yasha rolls onto her side and just looks at Molly for a moment, her two-toned eyes darkening somewhat in memory. “We, um. Everyone came this way after we got back from Shady Creek Run, the first time. But it’s nice here. And I think you’ll like the sea.”

Molly copies her motion, shoving a pillow into position to more comfortably suit his horns. He blinks at her, catching the small, almost disbelieving smile that lights up her whole face. He can’t fault her for watching him, for the worry that he’ll be gone if she blinks for too long. He wraps his tail loosely around her wrist, and fights back the same fear that lingers in his own mind.

“It’s safe here, too,” she promises, relaxing as the seconds tick by and they both keep breathing. He can faintly hear a few voices outside the window, but before he can even entertain the thought of seeing the others, Molly can feel his body relaxing again. It’s so warm in here, and he’s still so tired. 

"We have a house in Xhorhas, too," Yasha adds, blinking sleepily again. She smiles as Molly's surprised noise, and reaches out to push her fingers through his hair. "But, um. It's only ever night there, and with everything I… I saw, from the Stormlord, it seemed like it might not be a good place for you."

"Oh. Yeah, probably." He looks around the room, searching for something to help him shove away the thought of pervasive, unrelenting darkness. “This seems nice, though.” 

“We can go outside in a bit,” Yasha murmurs, her eyes drifting closed. “The ocean is beautiful, Molly.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it,” he yawns, “but I like the sound of some sun.”

“Mm. In a little bit.”

A nap sounds like the world’s best idea to Molly. He still feels fucking awful in a lot of ways, but he’s mostly exhausted and cold and he has an easy way to deal with that now. He wiggles his way back under Yasha’s chin and hums as she drops her arm back around his shoulders. They’re both asleep again in moments.

* * *

As nice as it is to lay about with his favorite person, Yasha recovers and eventually gets restless before Molly does. Although it's been several days since their insane quest to stick Molly back in his body, he still gets tired so very quickly and tends to drop into a nap mid-conversation. Whatever happened to him, the stress of coming back to life is clearly taking a long time to leave his system. So for the time being, the Mighty Nein have been taking turns coming to visit him.

"Caduceus warned us it’s normal to need some time to recover after something like what you went through," Fjord tells him as he pats him on the shoulder. No one’s really explained to Molly where Fjord’s new healing abilities come from, but they’ve proved to be a nice little pick-me-up so Molly’s not going to fuss. 

“I wouldn’t know, personally, but they seem like the people who know what they’re talking about,” Molly responds, aiming for light and jovial rather than sound like he’s out of breath just from pushing himself into a sitting position. It’s probably a futile act at best, but if Molly really were a god as he’d joked a long time ago, he’d be the god of futile bullshit and avoided truths, so at least he’s not too different from how he used to be.

Fjord, still a gentleman even with all the things about him that have changed, doesn’t call him out on it. “You’re looking better already,” he says, and Molly snorts. Fjord’s a good liar, but he should know a reach when he sees one. Molly knows he’s hardly at his best lying around with a bird’s nest of bedhead and someone’s spare shirt that’s far too big for him. 

“Sure, if anyone can pull off this look, it’s me,” he says dryly, glancing down at himself— 

His borrowed shirt gapes open at his chest, and for the first time since waking up, Molly really gets a look at himself. His breath catches at the twisted scar tearing through the lavender skin around it. He knows it's healed, he _knows_ his heart is beating and alive, but it looks raw and terrible and it pulls tight as he gasps and it hurts and he can't breathe— 

"Molly?"

He shakes himself. "Hm? Sorry, Fjord, what was that?" 

His voice isn't even a little bit steady. Fjord's eyebrows knit together in concern. 

Instinctively, Molly tugs his shirt closed over the scar. His hand freezes as he realizes what he’s done, such a— _fuck_ , well. His scars have always been just sort of… there. Never worth all that much thought, in his opinion; they looked a little odd, but what about him didn’t? This one, though… 

He catches Fjord’s eyes lingering on his hand, and sighs. Well, there was never going to be much use in trying to pretend like absolutely nothing has changed about him. It would have been sort of nice to try, though. He really doesn’t want this new bullshit to bring down the mood every time something makes him flinch, or have his friends handle him like a child, he just wants to get his feet back on the ground and feel like he did _before_ all of this. 

Fjord sees him noticing, too. His eyes lower apologetically, and then he turns toward the open window and leans back in his chair. “You know,” he begins, and Molly’s shoulders draw up to his ears as he casts around wildly for something to say that will cut this conversation off without being too sharp, without driving Fjord away. 

But instead of some kind of deep analysis of the soul journey they went on and its lingering unfortunate effects on Molly, Fjord just says, “Beau and Jester and Veth all got tattoos a while back.”

Now _that_ piques Molly's interest, and it's such a surprising turn of the conversation that he finds himself relaxing. "Oh, really? Well now you have to tell me the whole story."

* * *

“I don’t want them to know that I remember it,” Molly says. He feels Yasha jump a little as he breaks the silence, though her hands remain careful in his hair. It’s out of the blue to her, he knows that, but he can’t keep stewing in his thoughts anymore. And the longer he’s awake, the more likely it is that it’ll come up on its own anyway, so he needs to head that off at the pass. 

Talking about it at all leaves a bad taste in his mouth and a fearful tremor in his hands. Molly tilts his head back into Yasha’s hands and breathes deeply as she runs her fingers through it, slower than before. “If that’s what you want,” she says, “we don’t have to talk about it. It’s your choice, Molly. It happened to you.”

“I know.” Molly rubs his fingers slowly across the quilt in his lap, following the textured path of each pattern and design. He wants to sew something again, when his hands don’t shake as much and he doesn’t run the risk of falling half-asleep and stabbing himself. The idea of activating any of his blood magic—even by accident, even on something as small as a needle—sends shivers down his spine. 

Yasha ties off the little braid she’s finished in his hair. She leans forward then, her strong arms wrapping around his middle as she avoids his horns with an ease she never forgot, no matter that he was gone for months. Molly closes his eyes and leans back into her, ignoring the ache in his throat that keeps coming back when he thinks about how long he left her. 

“Hey,” she says softly. “The most important thing is that you’re back. And, I want you to be happy, Molly. I want you to be able to choose joy again. I know that isn’t as easy as it sounds.” She leans her cheek on his shoulder, warm and heavy and grounding. “I used to think it was your real magic, you know. That you were so good at being happy, you made it easy for other people… well, me at least. You make it easier for me to be happy, too. And now that you’re back, I just want… I want to give that back to you. However I can help.”

She gives him a little squeeze, and he’ll blame that for the tears that spill over his cheeks. He’s smiling, too, he’s not all sad—it’s just that everything he feels is so tangled up and contradictory that he can’t do anything else. “It’s your choice,” she says again, soft and simple. “As long as you remember that they all care about you enough to come with me, too.”

“I know,” Molly says. He lays his hands over Yasha’s, hugging her arms closer to himself. “That’s part of why I don’t want them to know. I don’t want them to… I’d hate it if they looked at me and all they could think about was _that_. All of you saw it when you came for me, and I’m grateful, I _am_ , I can’t even say how—but I don’t want that to be on everyone’s mind. I want to move on, I want everybody to be able to just… leave that behind.”

“Yeah,” Yasha says quietly, “I… yeah, I get that.” Molly closes his eyes, and feels a gentle, familiar kiss pressed to his head. “Just know that you’re here, Molly. You’re here, and you’re very, very loved. Can you do that for me?”

He turns around at that, no longer able to stand it that he isn’t hugging her back with all the strength he can muster. “I can do that,” he promises, muffled into her shoulder as he presses close enough to feel her heartbeat. “I love you, too.”

Yasha sniffs, then gives a watery little chuckle. She pulls a corner of his blanket up and wipes the tears from her face, then from his too. Molly scrunches his face up at her and she laughs, just like she used to do, and then she tosses the blankets aside. 

“I think,” Yasha says, “that you will love the ocean,” and she puts out her hand to pull him to his feet.

* * *

He can’t remember the last time he felt this good, Molly thinks lazily as he digs his fingers deeper into the hot, sun-kissed sand of the beach. He feels like the heat of the bright sun and pale sand is finally, _finally_ really seeping all the way into his bones. The incomprehensibly vast, near-hypnotizing view of the ocean has utterly captivated him, leaving Molly to sink into the soft, accommodating sand and remember what it’s like to feel warm all the way through. 

Fifty feet down the beach, Beau finally topples off Fjord’s shoulders with a shout. Molly grins lazily at her undignified splash into the water. From her victorious perch atop Yasha’s shoulders, Jester raises her arms and shrieks, her voice carrying easily across the beach to him. Several yards down the beach, safely far from the water and busy collecting the best shells and stones for her pockets, Veth cheers. Molly glances at the small but carefully-chosen handful of sea-polished agates she’s already left by his side, and smiles. 

As Beau pushes her sodden way out of the water and demands a rematch, another familiar figure emerges from the sea. With far less fanfare and far more sunburn, Caleb makes his way up the beach. Molly grins up at him as he approaches, dripping and smiling and looking so _light_ in a way that he’s only caught very brief glimpses of before. The beach is good for Caleb, too, it seems. So far it seems like this place is perfect. 

“You look to be enjoying yourself, Mister Mollymauk,” Caleb says as he stops a polite distance away, keeping his dripping self out of range. In another circumstance Molly might appreciate that, but he’s not in the mood to be overly concerned about a bit of saltwater when he could instead share a beautiful day with a handsome wizard. 

He pats the sand next to him invitingly. “You should join me for a bit, Mister Caleb,” he replies, tossing back that nickname that teases at the edge of flirting, that tastes like possibilities on his tongue. He wonders if it might be alright now to push that, see if it’s something that might fly instead of fall. 

For now, though, he sets his hopes on a cheerful conversation. “How was the water?”

To his delight, Caleb drops down next to him, leaning away from Molly to wring out his hair. “It is very nice,” he says, and Molly’s heart feels as warm as the sun-hot sand around him because Caleb sounds _happy_. Caleb is happy here next to him, and ahead of him he can see Yasha is _happy_ each time she glances in his direction and gives him a tiny, dazzling smile, and he can sit here and soak in the warmth of the sun and watch all of his friends relax and let themselves fill up with simple joy. 

Molly used to make a living on spinning tall tales from nothing, but even he doesn’t have the words for the enormous warmth that blooms in his chest and makes him breathless. “Good,” he says instead, and he couldn’t stop smiling if he tried. 

Caleb looks over at him, and smiles in a way that lights up his blue eyes just like the ocean stretched out before them. “Some time you should join me,” he suggests, and he sounds caught between confident and shy in a way that makes Molly’s stomach flutter in a new and exciting way. “Or, ah, you might prefer the fights that the others get into, they have a very complicated system of scoring points on each other. But I find it very peaceful to be on the ocean and just float for a while.”

Molly looks at Caleb for a moment, at the new relaxation and confidence that he carries with him, settled more comfortably in his skin. He shuffles around, watching for any sign of discomfort returning to Caleb’s face as he scoots decidedly into his personal space. But there’s only a little surprise, a little bit more color to his cheeks as Molly lays back down and lets his head drop onto Caleb’s sunburned, sandy thigh. 

“Tell me more about the ocean,” Molly demands, and Caleb’s smile warms him like a tiny, personal sun.

“There’s much to know about the sea,” Caleb’s distinct, distracting voice begins, “it can vary all around the continent, but so far I believe all of us like it best here in Nicodranas…”

Molly smiles, and closes his eyes as the sun soaks into his bones and Caleb’s voice melds with the rush of the ocean. 

He wakes up much later, still warm but aware of how much dimmer the light is. Someone is shaking his shoulder gently, calling his name in a soft voice. He still feels the flush of long hours in the sun, and the smell of salt and fresh air brings him quickly back to awareness. 

Molly blinks up into—oh. Caleb’s face is far more pink than usual, particularly across his nose and forehead and cheekbones. Molly bites his lip, trying and failing not to smile at the unfortunate but extremely endearing sunburn. 

Caleb notices his expression, and the indecipherable look on his face melts into one of fond exasperation. “ _Ja_ , I am aware,” he says drily. “I have tried everything in my power to avoid sunburn, Molly, and yet it continues to find me. You and the others may have a laugh at my Zemnian complexion later, though—I wanted to make sure you saw something.”

He points out toward the horizon, and Molly tears his gaze away from Caleb’s face with some difficulty. And then he sits up, mouth falling open in wonder as he looks out across the beach. 

The sight of the sun setting across the ocean was never something Molly imagined, and he’s glad that it had never crossed his mind until now. Nothing he could conjure up would do it justice; the vibrant and ever-changing beauty of the moment escapes any words he could hope to spin. The bright blue-green hue of the afternoon sea is gone now, replaced with a deep blue majesty that dances with red and purple and orange and gold, changing its surface every moment. Each small white-capped wave captures and refracts a dozen colors in the second before it crashes. The whole of the ocean spreads out before his eyes, gleaming and glimmering from the shore to the horizon. The sheer scope of it knocks him dizzy, and it’s all he can do to stare across the sea and try to drink in every bit of beauty in this moment. 

“Thank you,” he manages to breathe out, aware of Caleb hovering in his periphery as he watches the sun glow and flare across the water. 

“Of course, Molly,” he hears Caleb reply, and he’s too busy trying to catch every glimmer on the sea to notice Caleb’s gaze drinking in the way the setting sun’s glow lights up his face. The two of them sit in silence, each committing a moment to memory.

* * *

Even after his long nap in the sun, Molly has to retire earlier than his friends that evening. But he leaves them in the parlor with hugs and smiles and wishes good-night. It seems that although the exhaustion will cling a bit longer, he’s close to leaving the cold and the darkness behind for good. It’s a satisfying feeling to take to bed, coupled with the warm glow in his chest that comes from having a good day with his family around him. 

He’s not really surprised by the soft knock at his door, and luckily it catches him before he falls asleep. He is surprised, just a little bit, to see that it’s Caleb. 

“ _Entschuldigung,_ I should be letting you sleep.” He shuffles closer, looking unsure of himself again. Molly pats the edge of the bed, and Caleb smiles softly as he takes the hint.

“I, ah, I have something for you, Mollymauk.” Caleb places a large package in his lap, wrapped in some soft blue fabric. “Um, it’s not in perfect condition, I am sorry. But I, I remember what it looked like, and I did my best to…”

Molly has his hands full of this unexpected present, but he wraps his tail loosely around Caleb’s wrist to stop his rambling. “I'm sure it's great," he says, and pulls the silver ribbon apart. As the wrapping falls away, Molly's breath catches in his throat and a smile spreads across his face.

"Beau said it was gone," he says, running his fingers along the familiar embroidered patterns and paths in the deep red fabric. All the hours he’s spent, adding new art and repairing the continual tears and slashes that come with adventuring—Molly’s not one for material things, in general. One of the first things he learned in life was to pack light and be ready to travel at a moment’s notice, but this was… this one thing was always different. This was the first thing that was _his_ , the first thing he was given that he made his own. 

“Cree had it, if you can believe it. I, ah, convinced her… well, it doesn’t matter, I doubt she would ever be happy to see us again regardless. It took a bit of fixing up, but I wanted to… it was worth spending the time on. Mostly, um, through spellwork, I do not have your skill with real thread…” 

Molly tosses his coat around his shoulders, where it settles with a weight he hadn’t known he was missing. He turns his smile back on Caleb, warmth blooming in his chest all over again. “It’s perfect,” he promises, and impulsively he leans forward and presses a grateful kiss to Caleb’s forehead. 

Caleb lifts his hand, but hesitates a scant few inches from Molly’s cheek. “Is this okay?” he asks, and Molly almost wants to laugh if he weren’t afraid it would spook him off. As if he hasn’t wanted Caleb to be the one reaching out for… well, for a complicated amount of time, he supposes. 

Since the short answer, of course, is _yes_ , Molly leans in and lets Caleb’s fingers butt against his cheek like he’s seen the wizard do with Frumpkin. It gets a little laugh from Caleb, a soft surprised chuckle that Molly counts as a great success. His fingers brush along Molly’s forehead, brushing a lock of hair back into place before settling warm against his cheek. Molly closes his eyes again, trying not to lean into the contract so far that he tips over. 

“Yeah,” he says aloud, just in case Caleb carries any doubts. “Touch is… um, it’s good, definitely."

Caleb takes his hand away, to Molly’s great disappointment—but then to his delight, he scoots onto the bed with Molly, sitting atop his blankets and leaning back against the headboard. He hesitates a little once again, but seems to remember Molly’s permission, and holds out his arm. “You, ah you seem tired,” he says a little sheepishly, “and it—I thought that this might…”

“Are you sure you’re comfortable, Caleb?” Molly says, even as his exhausted body and yearning soul want him to crash right into the offered hug. “I mean, a lot’s changed, but you never seemed all that comfortable with touch before?” 

Caleb hums a little, not refuting or agreeing with him. “I don’t like strangers touching me at all,” he says, “or even friends, unexpectedly, but this is… _ja_ , this is good, trust me. And, ah… I think I might find it easier to talk with you, like this? Does that make sense?” 

“I think so.” Molly leans in, carefully situating his horns so as not to puncture his favorite wizard. Caleb’s arm comes down to rest across his shoulders, and he lets himself relax. He wraps his arms around Caleb’s waist and lets out a small, contented sigh. Caleb’s still thin, but far less worryingly bony than he was back when they met, and he’s very warm. Molly can feel his chest rise and fall under his cheek with every breath, and he finds himself matching the soothing rhythm instinctively just as he does with Yasha. It’s comforting, a grounding point that lets something in the back of his mind relax knowing that he’s alive, and he’s not alone anymore. 

Maybe he squeezes a little too tight as he pushes that thought away, or maybe Caleb can feel the small intermittent shakes that still go through him unpredictably. Or maybe he just felt like it, which is what Molly hopes for, but either way he’s intensely gratified to feel Caleb’s free hand begin to stroke his hair. He closes his eyes, almost overwhelmed with affection and warmth. 

“I don’t know if I said thank you,” he murmurs, “for… I mean, I know, there’s the obvious, but…”

“You don’t need to thank me for my part, Mollymauk.” Caleb’s voice is soft and firm, thrumming through Molly’s chest where they’re pressed together. “I am… immeasurably grateful that you came back to us. That surely took a kind of strength that I cannot imagine, but I am so very glad that you have it.” 

Then Caleb shakes himself a bit, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Molly, I did not mean to take a turn back to this subject. You don’t need to thank me for the coat, either, I just…”

“I wanted to say thank you for the other coat, too,” Molly interrupts him. He squeezes gently around his middle. Part of him wishes that he could see Caleb’s face like this, but it is easier like this, in a way. Molly doesn’t have to face the fact that he’s already breaking his own rule—just this once, just for this talk with Caleb. Caleb and Yasha—they’re safe. Molly can live with those two keeping his secret for him. “Back in… um. I guess I don’t know where that really was, if it was anywhere. When I was… dead, sort of.” He clears his throat. “You gave me your coat. It… I wasn’t all there, really? But I remember that. You gave me your coat, and it was warm. I heard your promise, and I wasn't... it wasn't all _me_ , really but I knew you. And you helped. So thank you.”

“I’m glad,” Caleb whispers back, as if speaking the words any louder will make them too much. His free hand finds Molly’s, and twines their fingers together. “I… there was nothing I could do, when we lost you. A few things since… well.” He takes another deep breath, chest rising and falling against Molly’s. “I am very glad that I helped, in any way. And that you are here now.”

Molly stares at Caleb’s hand where it’s intertwined with his own. It’s so warm, awfully dry, stained with ink and marked with a few thin, old scars like cat scratches. "I don't want some kind of… of legacy, Caleb," Molly says slowly. "Not with you, and not with this group. Well, maybe if it's something I can lord over Beau, that would be funny… um, maybe once it's been long enough for this to be funny, I guess. I'll hold onto that." 

He fidgets under the edges of his coat, careful not to dislodge it from his shoulders. "But that's a terrible way to start something, don't you think? I'm not… I might not be how you remember. I very much want to kiss you, Mister Caleb, but I don't want to be competing with my own shadow when I do."

“I think I understand,” Caleb says softly, “far better than I would have when we first met. I won’t say anything to the others, Mollymauk, you have my word. And…” He stops, clears his throat. Molly waits with his heart beating wildly in his chest. Is it possible to have misread everything that’s been going on between them? Maybe Caleb would do this for any of his friends, now. Maybe—

“I would like that very much,” Caleb blurts out. Molly’s thoughts screech to a halt and he stares up at him, almost positive he heard wrong. “I would like to kiss you,” Caleb adds, almost tripping over the words as if by saying it quicker he can outpace the blush overtaking him. Molly feels a grin spreading across his face. His tail lifts up of its own accord, wiggling happily free of the blankets to curl up in the air. 

“I—yeah,” he says, and there’s nothing to do but laugh, then, to give voice to the excitement and relief and joy bubbling up in his chest. Except his laugh trails into a yawn before he can bite it back, and damn it that’s not at all the impression he wants to give Caleb at this moment. 

Caleb looks… happy, though. Instead of offense or disappointment, Molly can only see warmth on his face, the kind of fondness he’d never truly expected that he’d see directed at him. 

“Hang on, here, lie down…” Molly goes easily under the gentle push of Caleb’s hand, settling back into his nest of pillows. Caleb fusses a bit, pulling the blankets up and making sure he's tucked it, and then he reaches across for something on Molly's other side. Then he spreads Molly's coat out atop the blankets, gently smoothing out the wrinkles so that it covers Molly in a familiar riot of warmth and color. Caleb gives him a smile that looks so pleased and so relieved and so simply, incredibly _happy_ , and Molly's breath catches in his throat as he reaches out and pulls Caleb in close. 

“You should kiss me good-night,” Molly says, and Caleb lets out one soft, incredulous laugh that brushes across Molly’s lips before he kisses him. And then there’s quiet between them, and a warmth as soft and strong as sunlight.

* * *

Molly wakes up in the middle of the night, feeling truly revitalized and rested for the first time since he came back. Moonlight spills bright and steady through the window, and Molly slips out of bed without disturbing Yasha. His footsteps are steady and silent as he crosses the room, and he finally feels graceful again as he kneels down in a hazy pool of silvery light. 

“Hello again,” he whispers up to the moon. “It’s really good to see you.”

A quiet breeze sighs through the open window, carrying the faint taste of salt and a sound that’s almost, not quite, a voice. Molly’s never been sure if the quiet, almost-there song he hears in the moonlight is a fancy of his imagination, if it’s a coincidental sound echoing from far away in the night, or if maybe it’s really the Moonweaver. He’s never needed to be sure, honestly. There’s a certain peace in the mystery.

“I don’t know if you had any hand in all this,” he says quietly, whether the moonlight is listening to him or not. “But whether you did or not... thanks for being here when I got back. That sounds a little stupid, now that I’m saying it, but I’m just… glad.” 

He draws his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on top. “I don’t have my swords or my cards or anything back yet, so I guess it’s just me. Seems a bit much to ask for any kind of blessing on top of everything, anyway.” He takes in a deep breath of the night air, enough to taste salt and silver on his tongue. “Thank you for another chance. There’s a lot I missed out on, that first time around, and… I feel like this one is going to be really good. So thank you.”

He stands up, and gives a little wave to the moon as he turns back to bed. For just a moment, he feels a shiver go down his spine like cool water or a warm breeze. 

Molly smiles as he slides back under the blankets. Yasha grouses a little, far from alert but awake enough to lift her arm up for him. 

“Okay?” she mumbles, not bothering to open her eyes. 

Molly wiggles under her arm, settling back into the warm place he left. “Yeah,” he whispers back. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep. “Yeah, Yasha, everything’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you liked the Soft, I'd love to hear what y'all thought <3


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